In this week’s Parsha, there is a very fundamental Verse that encompasses our very purpose in this current world and how to deserve the World to come: “You shall not defile My holy name, and I shall be sanctified amidst Bnei Yisrael; I am Hashem Who sanctifies you.” [Vayikra 22:32]. Two commandments are included: 1). Not to desecrate Hashem’s Name. 2). To sanctify Hashem’s name. This encompasses the purpose of one living in this world; his foremost life’s mission is to avoid defiling Hashem’s Name. Then, he should make every effort to sanctify it. That is how a person deserves this world and the next. In most of the Book of Vayikra all the messages are hinted only via two vectors: Sanctity and impurity. Why did Hashem choose to message us through these spectrums rather than clearly state what is expected of us? On our end to, it would have been much easier to understand the expectations and to follow suit. Since these Mitzvos are our entire life’s purpose, how do we perform them properly? The Talmud [Berachos 21b] states: “Similarly, Rav Adda bar Ahava stated: From where is it derived that an individual may not recite kedusha alone? As it is stated: “And I shall be hallowed among the children of Israel” [Leviticus 22:32], any expression of sanctity may not be recited in a quorum of fewer than ten men.” The Mishna [Megillah 23b] adds: “One does not recite the introductory prayers and blessing before Shema; nor does one pass before the ark to repeat the Amida prayer; nor do the priests lift their hands to recite the Priestly Blessing; nor is the Torah read in public; nor does one conclude with a reading from the Prophets [Haftara] in the presence of fewer than ten men.” Basically, this teaches us that any prayer that sanctifies Hashem requires a quorum of ten people. Why is it necessity of a quorum to pray, can’t individuals sanctify Hashem too? The Talmud [Berachos 6a] reveals: “Abba Binyamin said: One’s prayer is only heard in a Synagogue, as it is stated: “Yet have You turned toward the prayer of Your servant and to his supplication, Lord my God, to listen to the song and the prayer which Your servant prays before You on this day” [I Kings 8:28]. The following verse concludes: “To hear the prayer Your servant directs toward this place” [I Kings 8:29]. It infers that “the place of song” is the synagogue where Hashem praises must be sung. The Talmud elaborates: “Ravin bar Rav Adda repeated in the name of Rabbi Yitzḥak: From where is it derived Hashem is present in a synagogue? As it is stated: “God stands in the congregation of God.” [Psalms 82:1]. The congregation of Hashem is the place where people congregate to sing His praises, and Hashem is located among His congregation. Therefore, to be heard and to sanctify Hashem with our prayers, one must pray in the Synagogue with a quorum of ten people. The Zohar informs based of the Talmud [ibid 7b] that the prayer of a quorum of ten people is “not rejected”, however angels bring it before Hashem only if they deem it sincere and was not desecrated by speaking during the prayer. However, if a needy person is among the quorum, despite the quorum’s prayer being imperfect, it is cherished by Hashem. You see, the poor does not pray but “complains” to Hashem about his harsh life, and this is too holy to be handled by angels, it goes up directly to Hashem, before even the prayers of the Tzaddikim. His cry comes from the deeper depths of his soul and has the power to raise even flawed and sinners’ prayers. There is a famous Verse that illustrates this a little bit differently; “Hashem said to Moshe: Take yourself spices` ‘Nataf’, ‘Shecheilet’ and ‘Chelbinah’ as well as pure ‘Levonah’; they shall be equal one to another.” [Shemos 30:34]. Rashi explains: “‘Chelbeinah’ is a spice with a foul smell, thus the Scripture counted it among the ingredients required for the ‘Ketores’. This teaches us that it should not be deemed insignificant to include the sinners of Yisrael to our fasts and prayers, as they would otherwise be incomplete. Rashi saint teachings defy all logic! Who wants to mingle with sinners, they are impure and desecrate Hashem’s name? The Baal Shem tov teaches us that whatever we see in someone else, it is because we have that very defect, and it is the very reason we are sensitive toward it. Hashem does this on purpose to show us our own blemish so we can correct ourselves. So, what we see in others is only our own reflection. The Hellenistic and Pharaoh’s philosophy demand that we stand our grounds, we should conquer space in this world even at the expense of another Jew. This is desecrating Hashem, as His name is among each one of us. This Baal Shem reveals that is the reason all the messages are hinted through sanctity and impurity, as the Torah’s philosophy is that one can only elevate himself only through sanctity, and only with it can he really start to understand what it means to love Hashem. Therefore, the first step is to stop judging, and the second one is to start loving! Hereafter is an insightful story corroborating the Parasha’s message: As I settled into my seat on Flight 1272 bound for Chicago, I glanced at the passengers filing down the aisle. My Jew-radar immediately went off; in addition to the business travelers toting their laptops and briefcases and the pleasure travelers wearing shorts and Walkman, I spied several suede kippot, a Shtreimel and ankle-length skirts. Despite our shared heritage, I didn’t bother acknowledging them. They were strangers. And I live in New York, where strangers seldom exchange greetings, even if they recite the same prayers. The plane rolled toward the runway and I waited for takeoff. No such luck. The pilot announced the flight was being delayed three hours due to stormy weather conditions in Chicago. I glanced at my watch nervously. Usually, I avoid flying Friday afternoons for fear I won’t arrive in time, but on summer weekends when Shabbat doesn’t begin until 8 p.m., I figured I’d be safe. I figured wrong. But I calculated that I could just make it if I did not claim my luggage and jumped into a taxi. I turned around to check on my co-religionists. Two kippot were examining their watches. The Chasid was on the airphone. A half-hour before arrival, the pilot announced O’Hare Airport was shut down and we were landing in Milwaukee until we could continue. My stomach sunk. Candle-lighting was an hour away. I’d never make it on time. Like most religious Jews who work in the secular world, I had experienced my share of close calls. But I never knowingly violated the Sabbath. Now, I was stuck. By now, the kippot and long skirts were huddled in the back of the plane. They had been joined by others. Shabbat was bringing strangers together. It was time to introduce myself. We are going to get off in Milwaukee, a young man told me. The Chasid had called Milwaukee’s Chabad rabbi, who offered to host any stranded passengers for Shabbat. Come with us, he urged. I nodded with relief but returned to my seat crestfallen since I had planned this weekend with my family for months. My non-Jewish seatmate, noticing my despair, inquired what was wrong. When I told him the story, his jaw dropped. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “You’re getting off the plane in a town where you’ve never been with people you don’t know to stay overnight with complete strangers?” For the first time that day, it occurred to me just how lucky I was. When the plane landed, the pilot announced we were disembarking first for religious reasons. Passengers stared at us, dumbfounded. My seatmate bid me farewell as if he did not think I’d survive. But I quickly realized I was among friends. As I attempted to carry my bags off the plane, a woman insisted on helping me. When we crowded into cabs to take us to the rabbi’s house, the Chasid insisted on paying for me. And when the cabs pulled up at the home of the Rabbi and Rebbetzin, they ran outside to greet us as if we were long lost relatives. The sun set on Milwaukee as they ushered us into their home, where a long table was set for Shabbat with a white tablecloth, china and gleaming kiddush cups. When I lit the Shabbat candles, a wave of peace washed over me. With all that had transpired, I was warmed by the notion that the world stops with the first flicker of Sabbath light. Over a traditional Shabbat feast, the rabbi enchanted us with tales of the Baal Shem Tov and informed us that our re-route to Milwaukee was due not to the world of weather but of Divine providence. We lingered over our meal, enjoying our spiritual sanctuary in time after the stressful day. Zemiroth (Shabbat songs) filled the room. We shared disappointments about our unexpected stopover. Most of the group was traveling to Chicago for their friend’s aufruf (“calling up” the groom to the Torah on the Shabbat before a wedding) and wedding and were missing the aufruf. The Chasid and his wife were missing a bar mitzvah. We pondered the meaning of the departure from our journey and marveled at the coincidences. I had attended camp with my roommate, a couple had conducted business with my father, a man had studied in yeshiva with my cousin, the Chasid used to work in my hometown of Aurora, Ill., and I had once spent Purim in Crown Heights with my hosts’ son. Exhausted as we were, everyone was hesitant to leave the table to go to sleep. The next morning, a lively Tefilah was followed by a leisurely meal where we exchanged stories about our lives, careers and dreams. We nicknamed ourselves the Milwaukee 15 and wondered if future generations would retell the story of the flight that didn’t make it in time for candle lighting. Saturday night, we made a regretful journey to the everyday world. But before we began the final leg of our journey, I called my husband to tell him all that had transpired. “Who did you spend Shabbat with?” he asked worriedly. I pondered how to explain who these former strangers were who had given me object lessons in Shabbat hospitality and in the power of Shabbat in bringing Jews together. And, then as swiftly as a 747 can leave the tarmac on a clear day, I realized the truth: miles away from my parents, husband and home, I had accomplished what I set out to do when I booked my ticket: I had spent Shabbat with family.

By Rabbi Fridmann * [email protected] * 305.985.3461

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